I blew it. And I’d like to apologize. On January 6th, as the capitol was under assault, I posted what was happening in my Facebook feed. I posted while I was pissed. Never a good thing to do. We know this, right? And yet, watching what was unfolding, I was incensed. I won’t go into the reasons now because it’s not helpful, and it’s not the point. I posted my opinion because it’s America and we can. And then I blew it.
What an honor to be invited to write for the Global Leadership Network! Here’s a brief excerpt from my blog post. Click here to read the full article.
The surprising key to navigating in this very complex world is PACE.
What if in slowing down, pacing ourselves and honoring the pace of others, we actually find energy for creativity, for productivity and for peace?
What if a global slowdown is an invitation to rest?
In his three years of public work, Jesus fully accomplished his mission on earth. In a sea of endless needs and demands, he frequently made space for rest and retreat. And he did this not just for himself. He did it for his people.
When the disciples returned from a long work assignment on the road (preaching and healing and doing all the disciple stuff), they came to Jesus to report what they’d seen and done. So many people are coming and going that they haven’t even had a chance to eat. Rather than looking at all those people with all their needs and putting the disciples right back to work, Jesus says these amazing words: “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.” (Mark 6:31, NIV)
Pace allows us to be present to our purpose and to people.
Six months in a global pandemic can mess you up. Or maybe it’s just me. (Please tell me it’s not just me.) Most days, I feel like I’m going around in circles. Which day is it? What am I doing again? The days run together, and I feel lost and disconnected and disoriented. My emotions run in circles, too. Grief, then anxious, then sad, then happy and content break in for a bit. Then grief again, and the cycle repeats. It’s like a very emotional Groundhog’s Day.
And then finally, because it still takes so much longer than it should, I remember. I remember to get out of my house and out of my head. I return to the prayer labyrinth by the river. This place is familiar, sacred space to me. On the grounds of this Jesuit spiritual center, I have a history of holy moments with God.
Here I begin to walk in a new circle.
I’ve had it. I’m over it. I’m empty. Or at least that’s how it feels. This pandemic is taking its toll, and my bounce back is no longer bouncing. I feel more like a deflated balloon.
Part of the problem is, well, life. Because the things of life that might feel manageable--you know, when we’re not in a pandemic--just keep piling on. Uncertainty. Loss. Grief. Conflict. Care for children and elderly parents. (I am dealing with the latter.) Decisions feel nearly impossible to make, because what we know today will most likely change tomorrow.
And life is loud right now. So loud. Protests and the urgent need to listen, to learn, to stand against injustice. The divide over basics like masks and the protection of life. (Why this is debatable escapes me completely.) The divide over defunding and reforming law enforcement. Oh, and the very loud divide over a certain upcoming election. Which will only get louder. The fear mongering. The misinformation. I am only stating the obvious now. And the obvious is enough to send me straight to bed for a nap.
I need the quiet desperately these days. Stillness. Rest (and not just the nap kind, although that can help). In this kind of space I remember. I remember the goodness of God. I remember Christ in me. I remember I am held in an unyielding embrace with great tenderness. And I can start to breathe again.
I tend to focus on all I’m pausing from. All the normal, all the things I love and need. And I feel the sadness of missing all the things. And we need to feel the sadness, because it’s real. The loss is real. Let’s just take a moment to acknowledge that.
But it helps when I change a word, and I ask this question: “What am I pausing for?”
What if there’s something in the world, something in me, that needs rest to be renewed or maybe to be born for the first time? Maybe there’s something that will only open up in the pressure of this pause. Something in me. Something in the world. Something we desperately need.
What if this time we share in the wilderness offers us a gift? The gift of our own undoing. What if it opens the doorways to our souls? The place where we find our true selves again. Where we find one another again. Where we find God again. Or maybe for the first time. Or maybe in a new way. What if we find a new way to be ourselves? To be together? What if there’s mercy in the pruning?
Honestly, it feels like it’s too soon to offer the words “gift” or “mercy” into the chaos. Because there’s so much pain right now. So much fear, anxiety, uncertainty. All of this is real. We feel it deeply, the groaning in our world. We can’t rush or push or work our way past it (although some will try). We must first hold this space together, acknowledge the fear and loss, and find a way to walk together through it. Loving, serving, praying, we will find the way through.
